


A scene from three perspectives

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>15 minutes told 3 ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A scene from three perspectives

A scene from three perspectives  
Pre-Elizabeth/Peter/Neal  
PG  
WC: 1255

 

 

FYI - the ink and bond stuff is shamelessly stolen from the first episode because I know about as much about forging bonds as I do cleaning house and my house is a _mess_.

 

 

 

per·spec·tive (pr-spktv): 1. The relationship of aspects of a subject to each other and to a whole.  
2\. The appearance of objects in depth as perceived by normal binocular vision.

 

 

**Elizabeth:**

 

So, it was like this: Neal came home from work with Peter to eat lasagna and work on a case afterwards. Neal ate like an animal, or a teenage boy. Three helpings. Elizabeth shook her head, amused. She didn't know where Neal put all the food, but it was good for him to eat a home cooked meal with people. He spent too many nights in his glamorous apartment, with its breathtaking view, eating takeout alone.

"Who wants dessert?" She asked, collecting the empty plates from the table.

"Me," Neal said immediately.

Peter looked appalled. "Seriously?"

"What?" Neal asked, defensively. "It was _good._ "

"None for me, babe," Peter said. "I'm stuffed, but definitely later."

"Give me a few minutes. I'll put some coffee on," Elizabeth said to Neal with a smile.

"Need any help with the dishes?" Neal asked and shot Peter a triumphant look. _You should have asked first!_ his expression said.

"Nah, I got them. You two work on your case."

Peter shot Elizabeth a grateful look. He was itching to get to work, Elizabeth could tell. He always was.

She carried the dishes into the kitchen, dropped them into the sink to rinse them before putting them into dishwasher. She measured out the coffee, poured the water in and turned the coffeemaker on, then peered around the door to watch Peter and Neal.

Neal had scooted his chair around right next to Peter's, their heads bent together. Low murmuring about bonds and inks ran together into one companionable jumble from where she stood.

"Gotcha!" Neal said.

Peter looked up. "No way, you did not just figure this out."

"Did too," Neal said smugly.

A slow smile spread across Peter's face and he raised a hand to Neal's hair and ruffled it. "You going to clue me in?"

They leaned forward simultaneously, talking excitedly, neither noticing that Peter's hand slid down to Neal's neck and stayed there.

 

 

***

 

 

**Neal:**

 

His mom sometimes made lasagna on her good days. She had a few of them here and there, interspaced throughout her weeks of bad days when she couldn't leave the house, couldn't even get out of bed.

On her bad days, Neal ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he made himself while slowly sipping tap water in-between bites to make himself feel more full. He needed to save the food in the house until Ellen could stop by or until his mom had another good day and would buy groceries, but he didn't know when that would be.

Neal was ravenous. He ate Elizabeth's lasagna and couldn't seem to stop himself from staring mournfully at the empty plate. Sometimes he couldn't ever seem to get full.

After three plates, though, Neal thought, he should probably call it a night.

"Who wants dessert?" Elizabeth asked.

"Me," Neal said before he could stop himself. He could feel Peter staring.

"Seriously?" Peter asked.

"What?" Neal turned towards Peter. "It was good." It was warm in the house and the jazz music Elizabeth liked so much was turned low. Neal felt his stomach clench. This was, this was nice. Felt homey. And dangerous. Men like him got sloppy when they felt secure.

"None for me, babe," Peter said, leaning back in his chair and patting his stomach ruefully. "I'm stuffed, but definitely later."

"Give me a few minutes. I'll put some coffee on," Elizabeth said to Neal.

"Need any help with the dishes?" Neal asked and looked at Peter, eyebrows raised. Why don't you ever help clear the table?

"Nah, I got them. You two work on your case."

From the kitchen, Neal could hear the clack of plates, water running and the coffeemaker sputtering to life.

Peter grabbed the box by his feet. Open cases never seemed to stray more than a foot away from him, like Peter was afraid he'd have a breakthrough any moment.

Neal wondered if he lined the bed with files and slept on them at night.

Peter spread out some folders in front of him and Neal brought his chair around so they could scan them together.

"The ink is iron gal dye, but why - " Oh. It was a _signature_. Neal knew all about that. Clever. "Gotcha," he said softly, triumphantly. Only one art student capable of that on the suspect list.

Peter looked at him with wide eyes. "No way, you did not just figure this out."

"Did too," Neal said, the tight feeling in his belly gone. He always wondered what would happen if there was a string of cases they couldn't solve, what the FBI do to him. Toss him back in prison, most likely, before he could say, Hey, please don’t put me in prison. To Neal, cracking a case was like a single gasp of air for a drowning man. It bought him a little more time.

Peter smiled and ruffled Neal's hair. "You going to clue me in?"

Neal looked down and began explaining. The warmth of Peter's hand slid down to his neck and stayed, spread throughout Neal's body and felt like - his mind stumbled - approval? Affection?

He didn't even know, he just knew he wanted it, wanted to keep it. Forever.

 

 

***

 

 

**Peter:**

 

Neal was eating like a pig, which was unusual in itself. Generally, Neal was a light eater, but Peter could tell his mind was somewhere else. He looked kind of...sad.

Neal scraped his plate for the third time and sat back, looking satisfied.

"Who wants dessert?" Elizabeth asked.

He heard Neal say, "Me."

"Seriously?" Peter asked. Where was he putting all of this?

"What?" Neal asked. "It was _good._ "

"None for me, babe," Peter said, looking up at Elizabeth. "I'm stuffed, but definitely later." He rubbed his stomach. It wasn’t a lie if it was true.

"Give me a few minutes. I'll put some coffee on," Elizabeth said to Neal with a smile and a knowing glance for Peter.

"Need any help with the dishes?" Neal asked.

"Nah, I got them. You two work on your case."

Peter felt ridiculously grateful. His mind was thrumming with the steady insistence of work, work, work, the way it did when he knew they were close to cracking a case. He couldn't even bear to let the box that held all the files out of eyesight.

He grabbed the box eagerly, pulled out the top files and spread them out in front of him. Neal scooted close. He could feel Neal's warm breath ghost over his neck.

"The ink is iron gal dye, but why - " Neal murmured. He paused, eyes widened fractionally. "Gotcha!”

Peter sucked in a sharp breath and looked at Neal. "No way, you did not just figure this out." He felt a grin pull at the corners of his mouth. Goddamn, the kid was smart.

"Did too," Neal said, sitting back.

He raised a hand absently to ruffle Neal's hair. "You going to clue me in?"

Neal leaned forward again and Peter nodded along, letting Neal's words wash over him. He slid his hand to Neal's neck, felt the warmth there, the strangely vulnerable expanse of pale, soft skin.

He should move his hand, he thought. Leaving it there was a sort of question. He shifted, ready to pull away, but Neal pushed back, closer, like the answer was _Yes._

 

The end.

 


End file.
